


Rain On The Road In My View

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: 90s, Amsterdam, Angst, Band Break Up, Break Up, Fluff, M/M, Paparazzi, Public Display of Affection, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a cold night in Amsterdam in 1996, and even Mark and Gary’s secret relationship isn’t safe from the fact that everything, ultimately, must end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain On The Road In My View

Mark could still feel Gary inside of him when he got out of bed the next day. He still remembered exactly what it felt like to have Gary push in and out slowly, stretching the skin around his entrance until it hurt, rocking the bed until all Mark felt was the climax building in the pit of his stomach. He no longer remembered the tears that rolled down his cheeks when they both came; tears not of joy or pain but of sadness — all brought on by the terrifying realisation that everything was ending.

Then Mark saw the space on the bed where Gary should be, and he felt emptier than ever.

Mark found out some minutes later that Gary had decided to leave the hotel on his own. He was going to catch an early flight to the States at Schiphol Airport and record his solo record in New York. He hadn’t even stopped to say goodbye to the lads, and none of the hotel staff had been informed about it. One moment he was there, and the next he was not.

Mark wouldn’t even _dream_ of leaving Gary on his own after a night of making love; it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.

But Gary had, and deep down Mark had always known he would: Gary told him so himself in the park last night.

So why did it hurt so much?

They always stayed here, at this five-star hotel away from tourists, canal cruises, and coffee shops that Nige didn’t want the lads to visit. (So they did it in secret. Well, Rob and Howard did the last time they were here, anyway. The smell was _appalling_.) Parallel to a busy tree-lined street with the odd clothes shop and bakery – trams stopping and departing at the intersection just ahead –, the hotel was as much as an institution as it was a place to stay. It was _the_ place for rich jetsetters and celebrities to be, and tonight it was Take That’s. They stayed here whenever they did a bit of promo overseas and they’d start doing so again in a few years’ time, when fans no longer show up in their hundreds but are just as dedicated.

That was always the weird bit, having fans show up at your hotel. The boys should’ve been used to it by now, but how could they? For on that cold April morning in ’96 there were not ten, nor fifty, nor one hundred but _three hundred_ of them, starting at the barrier at the front of the hotel and flowing into the next street.

There’s a hair salon there now, and some bicycle stands. Someone’s even decided to set up a company there, in a building adjacent to that world famous hotel. But back then, on that sad Thursday night-slash-morning when everyone would collectively call in sick, there were only girls; some excited to finally see their idols, most terrified and teary-eyed because this was probably the last and only time they ever would.

Here, everyone’s collective journey would end. They’d seen it coming, of course, everyone had, but this was _it_. This was the day of Take That’s last ever performance; a day that, in twenty years’ time, would be reminisced about by the same fans on this very spot. But it’s hard to think about the future when you’re fourteen, and for many girls it felt like their lives were dangling from a thread. If there’s no Take That, then what else is there? 

It turned out the boys themselves didn’t have a clue either.

The young fans were still singing Take That songs outside the hotel when Mark and Gary once again sneaked past the usually so all-seeing James and Paul and stumbled into Mark’s hotel room together on Thursday night. They weren’t drugged-up or intoxicated, but it felt like they were: restless, anxious, bordering on aggressive.

Impulsive.

_Cold_.

It wasn’t long until the boys had rid themselves of their clothes – the ones they did their canal cruise in previously: Mark, a fluffy black jumper and grey trousers; Gary, an oversized blue jacket that looked like a bloody lab coat, a stylish white t-shirt underneath – and kissed and rubbed and touched each other’s naked bodies like their lives depended on it.

For one night only, the chorus of singing girls was a blessing: no-one would hear them moan.

They were utterly desperate for each other, with Gary leaving painful bite marks all over Mark’s soft skin until he entered him on the floor and slowed things right down.

‘Don’t – _ah_ – don’t stop.’

‘Wasn’t planning to, Marko.’

Their first time was a bit like this. It was at Gary’s mansion after they’d both had a drink and drunkenly confessed they had feelings for each other, and they couldn’t decide whether they wanted to fuck each other senseless or make sweet love on the sofa – for this _was_ their first time; not just as a couple but _with a boy in general_ – so they decided to do a bit of both. The day after, they did it again. And again the next day. (That day was Gary’s favourite, when Mark held himself up on his hands and knees above Gary on the floor and made him reach for his mouth all needy and desperate.) And again and again until they knew perfectly how the other ticked, inside out.

Gary still didn’t stop kissing Mark as he lifted him up and pressed him firmly against the wall to their right, his cock still inside of him. The curtains had been drawn open ever so slightly, but fuck it; so what if they were spotted? All Gary cared about was Mark, gasping and moaning into his ear so loud that it was almost embarrassing, his tanned legs spread wide against Gary’s sides.

Mark’s nails were digging into Gary’s shoulder blades painfully now, and Gary thought he felt blood.  

He’d deal with that later. Tomorrow, when he left. When Gary no longer felt Mark’s hot, naked skin burning up against his lingering hands.

They were moving excruciatingly slowly, but it’s how they both wanted it: they didn’t want it to be over, not now, not ever.

‘ _Oh_. Fuck me, Gaz – _mmm_ – yeah that’s it, c’mon, Mr Barlow . . .’ Mark always talked a lot when he was nervous or horny – Mark talked a lot, _period_ ; that’s just how Mark was – but he couldn’t shut the hell up tonight, like he knew that these words were likely the last time he ever spoke them and that it was no point clinging onto them. He called Gary every sweet nothing he knew and started all over again when he ran out of words to say. ‘I love you so fucking much, Gaz. So much,’ he said before Gary pressed his forehead against his.

Gary pretended not to see the tears in Mark’s eyes. It was easier that way.

‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God,’ Mark whimpered, his head thudding against the wall behind him as Gary hit a particularly sensitive spot that only Gary knew about. He wrapped his short legs tighter around Gary’s waist, pulling Gary in deeper and deeper until they ran out of space.

Mark was rock hard against Gary’s stomach now, his cock already painting thin lines of wetness against his ex’s naked skin.

The fans outside were asked to stop singing by the police, but it was yet another thing Gary didn’t notice, not really; he was too focussed on the look on Mark’s face – lips parted, eyebrows screwed up in concentration, beads of sweat making his hair stick to his forehead – to see beyond the beauty of this moment.

The fact that he was still able to turn Mark into this after all these years was driving him frantic.

Every time Gary pulled out of him – his movements were becoming faster now; his breathing, ragged – Mark slid an inch or so down the wall, only to be pushed back up hard with every single thrust. They were no longer taking it slow. It _hurt_. The angle was a bit awkward and the wall felt cold against Mark’s arse, but he’d been looking forward to this all day, ever since they left the airport and stepped into their little black van. None of today’s shit mattered anymore now that Gary was inside of him and his lips pressed tight against his, their shared body heat making the cold air of the April nights outside feel like an arctic storm.

It’d been an awful day, frankly. The boys arrived in Amsterdam at a quarter past three in the morning (!) and went to the hotel for a quick kip and some breakfast straight after. Nigel assumed that if they arrived in the capital city in the middle of the fucking night they might avoid the usual welcoming party of fans and journalists, but of course he was wrong. (Then again, Nigel was wrong about a lot of things in those days.)

Nigel was and still is the last person to find out about Mark and Gary’s nightly liaisons. He didn’t know then and he doesn’t know now, and why should he? He would only have found ways to misuse that knowledge anyway. James and Paul had their suspicions (you do tend to attract attention to yourself when you keep sneaking out with your boyfriend at two in the morning), but they never said a word. Howard and Jason were frequently at it themselves, so of course _they_ knew. But Nigel never did.

The boys didn’t stay for a chat that morning. Even Mark, who usually spends three hours signing fans’ autographs, went into the hotel lobby straight away. He just couldn’t be arsed tonight. There was this feeling of dread hanging over him that he didn’t really know how to get rid of and that he didn’t want his fans to see, and it was ruining _everything_. Mark always thought he’d feel relieved about the band ending, but he didn’t and he never would. Especially not today.

It was worse when he was with Gary. He had never expected their relationship to last long, but then he looked at Gary at the breakfast table in Amsterdam’s most famous hotel, and he wasn’t sure whether he was ready for it to end at all. 

Seated at a table in the far right corner of the hotel’s atmospheric breakfast hall, the boys enjoyed their scrambled and poached eggs, smoothies, crackers, pancakes and waffles, apple pies and bread rolls in complete silence. Paved with a pristine yellow and black carpet, the breakfast hall looked like it came straight out of a movie set; a film, naturally, taking place in the Dutch Golden Age — except with more boy bands and less privacy. (Thankfully, the room’s long yellow curtains had been drawn shut so that no-one could take a peek inside.) Finishing the breakfast hall’s five-star interior were sparkling chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, a dozen suns in the middle of April.

Everything ought to have been perfect, but it wasn’t: the fans outside were just a little bit too loud and the chandeliers too bright. The breakfast was exquisite, but none of our boys had a taste for it. Worse still, there was an elephant in the room that no one dared talk about, and it wasn’t until Nigel cleared his throat and put down his grease-stained fork that the silence was lifted.

They spent the entire trip from the airport that way, not talking but wishing they could, the looks shared between Mark and Gary on the highway mere constitutes for words. Howard and Jason hadn’t even bothered to stay awake to witness their journey into the city centre, the quiet highway being slowly replaced with busy cobble-stoned streets that smelled vaguely of past visits. Howard and Rob had an adventure there once, back when there were still five members of Take That and when Amsterdam still felt like the sort of city your mum tells you to be careful in at night.

The only frightening thing about Amsterdam that night was the fear of losing your mate in the dark.

Tens upon hundreds of aligning streetlamps passed them by, creating a sort of ever-shifting light spectacle in the car; a light fell onto Mark’s sad face just briefly, and Gary knew immediately what he was thinking. Mark ran his hands through his half-long hair and the look was gone, but its impact had remained ever since.

Mark was as scared as Gary felt.

‘We’re expected at the TV studio at eleven,’ Nigel said that morning, sounding just as bored as he usually did. If Gary didn’t know better, he’d think that Nige was already half thinking about where to build his brand new holiday home for his retirement. ‘I want you all to be ready in half an hour,’ he announced flatly, and that was that. He couldn’t even be arsed to tell them that they were supposed to perform _Back For Good_ and _How Deep Is Your Love_ that afternoon.

The boys were too tired to say anything, so they all continued eating to the awkward sound of scraping cutlery.

Gary, who had been dry-heaving over the toilet a little over an hour ago, wasn’t hungry and finished his plate first. He usually had an appetite for two (breakfast was his favourite time of day, with dinnertime following closely behind), but every time he set his spoon to his lips he felt an uncomfortable squirming in his stomach that he knew meant he was about to throw up.

When the band formally ended less than two months ago, part of him felt relieved. He did his bit at the press conference and went home feeling all right really. The media circus and suicide hotlines passed him by entirely. For the first time in years, he could finally think freely about what types of songs he’d be putting on his next record. He’d already decided that it would be an album with heart and soul, with acoustic tracks and the odd up-tempo number here and there.

When he woke up the next morning, on a chilly Wednesday and Rob’s birthday no less, he felt happy and free for a blissful five seconds. Then he stretched and got out of bed, and he remembered.

Gary stared at his half-eaten plate of beans and sausages until someone kicked him underneath the table hard. ‘ _Oof_ . . . !’ He rubbed his aching shins and looked around the table as inconspicuously as he could until he spotted Mark glaring at him. They still hadn’t spoken. In fact, Gary hadn’t even looked at Mark properly since walking into the hotel what felt like a lifetime ago, and it was only now that Gary noticed that Mark’s eyes were red from crying. He was wearing a godawful outfit that worked only because it was the nineties, and his hair was a tad unruly. He clearly hadn’t bothered combing it, and why should he? They were going to be dragged into bloody hair and make-up in a minute anyway.

Mark still looked good though, the bastard.

_What the hell?_ Gary mouthed.

Mark raised his eyebrows and jerked his head at Nigel in a way Gary knew meant, _Are you going to ask him or not?_

Mark’s eyes were remarkable. They were a standard shape and size (Gary hadn’t really spared other boys’ eyes much thought before so he didn’t quite know how Mark’s compared), but God, those eyelashes. In the right light, Mark’s eyes were a bright, ocean blue and at the worst of times they could make Gary do terrible things. His eyes were the first thing Gary noticed when his feelings for Mark soared into his heart on the wings of an autumn breeze in 1993, and the last thing Gary wanted to see every night.

Then his feelings for Mark quadrupled, and he started noticing other things, too: the dimples in Mark’s cheeks every time he smiled; the way he ran his fingers through his hair every time he felt nervous; the tiny hairs below his belly button, driving Gary mad every time they performed without clothes on. (This happened often. Thanks, Nige.) Sometimes Gary wanted to spend hours just running his fingers down every part of Mark’s body that he loved, leaving a trail of goosebumps on his lover’s skin.

The final thing Gary noticed was Mark’s mouth, sogoddamn _fuckable_.

Mark hardly ever took Gary all the way in; he said Gary was too thick for that (girth-wise, thank you very much), and there was no arguing with that. But Mark would make up for it by wrapping his lips around the tip of Gary’s cock, tugging and tugging until he slipped his tongue inside Gary’s slit and cum played on his taste buds. They’d both gotten excellent at it over the years, but the first few times were bloody awful: ten-second blowjobs, teeth getting in the way of everything, white stains down their borrowed Gucci tops, that sort of stuff.

Gary couldn’t imagine a world where they didn’t know each other inside out, but they had already stepped into it halfway. All it took was a taxi ride to the airport the next morning and they’d no longer be a part of each other’s lives at all.

Mark’s eyes had no effect on Gary that morning, and he shook his head at Mark’s wordless request at the breakfast table.

_Can’t_ , he mouthed before taking a sip of his tea that had gone cold.

Mark stubbornly ignored Gary’s reluctance and shot him a significant look. ‘Gaz, didn’t you say you wanted to ask Nige somethin’ this morning?’ he said loudly, his tongue pushed inside his cheek. He was practically _daring_ Gary to talk his way out of it.

‘I . . .’ Gary looked around the table. All eyes were on him now. (Except Howard’s, who had dozed off. Having fallen asleep in quite an uncomfortable position, the right sleeve of his shirt was currently soaking up the juices of his scrambled eggs.) ‘Erm, I was just wondering if we could do some, er, sightseeing today, is all,’ he admitted, and the silence was so great that he could hear Mark breathe a sigh of relief. ‘On our own, I mean. _Alone_ ,’ he added pointlessly.

‘Not a chance,’ said Nigel almost immediately. ‘You’re not letting these lads out of your sight, do you hear me?’ he spat at James and Paul, who had just started their third helpings of scrambled eggs. ‘Studio at eleven. Be there or piss off. I don’t care.’

Gary shrugged at Mark as if to say sorry, and he excused himself and left. He wanted to give Mark’s shoulder a gentle squeeze – anything, _anything_ to take the edge off; God, did he want to touch him and hold him and just be _with_ him instead of feeling like he was walking on eggshells around his colleagues –, but Nigel was looking at Gary with dagger eyes so he let his hand drop to his sides at the last second.

He couldn’t even remember the last time they’d kissed.

Their first kiss, though, now that was something Gary would remember forever. It was dead awkward as well: they had just finished another tour and they were all hugging each other backstage and there was this moment when Mark and Gary embraced each other and Gary wasn’t sure whether Mark was going to go in for a kiss on the cheek or not, and Mark’s lips ended up on Gary’s mouth instead. Gary almost kissed him back properly, eyes squeezed shut because _Mark was kissing him oh Christ_ , but colleagues! Nigel! Camera!

Gary pushed Mark back before something seriously bad could happen and they just sort of stared at each other blushing until an unknowing Howard slapped Gary on the back and handed him some beer.

(Gary downed the whole bottle. In one go.)

Last month, when it was set in stone that their final performance would be here, at a television studio somewhere in The Netherlands, Mark and Gary decided they wanted their visit to be special, a final victory lap as it were. They’d take a stroll down the Bloemenmarkt and catch a film at the local movie theatre, and end the day stuffing themselves at a pancake restaurant.

That was before they realised the circus their visit would be.

Looking back, the hysteria was perhaps not as grand as the media were making it out to be – entire ferries’ worth of British fans were expected to show up on the continent and the Amsterdam hotel had allegedly already prepared itself for a fan-led ‘assault’; none of that turned out to be true –, but it felt real at the time.

What felt less real, was their last ever performance. It was the last time they’d ever be in the same room together and they were all so emotionally numb that it felt as though they were on automatic pilot. Time passed strangely that day, and all Gary had to do was blink at the mirror in their dressing rooms and he’d be given gifts by the presenter on stage a second later.

Although Dutch television is hardly ever sensationalist, it was that day. There were shots of lucky fans arriving at the top secret location in buses; shots of the less fortunate fans outside, waiting in the cold; images of _that_ press conference again, weaved in with archive footage of other idols’ visits to Holland: Cliff Richard, the Beatles performing at a famous chain of Dutch household stores, etcetera, etcetera — all to make Take That’s visit to Holland’s humble capital city feel all the more special.

In the second part of the show “distraught” fans would be interviewed, and in the third and final segment Take That were to perform two songs. It was nothing they’d never done before and _Back For Good_ wasn’t even that difficult a song, but all the fans? And the _presents_? And the bloody cameramen shoving their equipment into the poor girls’ faces? That made it tough.

The boys couldn’t even remember their performance after they were shoved inside yet another van. All Gary remembered was getting so bored and frustrated that they all took their trousers off in the middle of rehearsals. It was quite liberating, that. (It also helped that Mark was wearing tiny white underpants. _Fuck_. If Gary looked good enough he might’ve even been able to spot the bruise he left on Mark’s left thigh a week ago.) Performing with their trousers down was much better than the outfits their stylist had selected for them, anyway: those godawful black turtlenecks and white trousers made them look like fucking Christmas.

‘That was a good performance, that,’ Gary said out of habit. They’d just left a large business park and were already back in their own clothes. (They had to change so quickly that Howard lost a sock in the parking lot.) ‘I won’t be wearing those bloody outfits next time though, what a racket . . .’ he added as an afterthought.

Howard scoffed, disbelieving. ‘Next time? You’re not thinking ‘bout your solo record yet, _are_ you, Gary?’ he asked, not in jest but with contempt. There was a bitterness to his voice that thankfully went over Gary’s head.

Jason nudged Howard shoulder as if to say _Leave it!_ but Howard just shrugged and stared out of the window. Howard had bigger things on his plate than solo records and godawful clothes right now. He hadn’t told anyone this, but he was feeling really fucking awful and it was a good thing he was in a city where he could disillusion himself he was someone else for a second or he might just throw himself under the next best bus. (Or tram; there were a lot of those here.) He’d been feeling depressed for well over a month and he couldn’t believe that people like Gary were just okay with it ending. It’s like Gary never gave a shit in the first place.

‘I – I mean . . .’ Gary coloured when he remembered that there wasn’t going to _be_ a next time. He shuffled in his seat uncomfortably and looked at Mark for support.

‘We know what you mean, Gaz,’ said Mark with a sad smile on his face.

It didn’t suit him, smiling sadly.

Mark’s smile could light up entire cities. It set Gary’s heart on fire. And when he smiled when he came? With his fringe covering his eyes? That was the best thing ever.

But now even Gary’s favourite thing about Mark had been taken away from him in a storm of journalists and rushed performances.

When the others weren’t looking, Mark let his fingers gently brush Gary’s left hand. They shared a meaningful look that lasted until the van drove underneath a viaduct that was filled with fans holding up banners.

‘Blimey. How’d they know we’d _be_ in here?’ said Gary, looking over his shoulder to see the fans scurry to the other side of the viaduct as they passed.

‘The police escort kind of gives it away,’ Howard grumbled.

The boys said nothing as they were driven back into the city centre. More and more fans showed up, closing up intersections and stopping trams from departing. Some fans even ran through traffic to catch a mere sight of their van. There were police officers and first aid helpers in the midst of the young crowd too, and one or two girls had to be carried off on a stretcher.

Mark felt his eyelids droop. What he would normally do when he was tired – what he _always_ did when he was tired – was rest his head on Gary’s shoulder until they both slept. Sometimes Gary would massage his hair. But they were surrounded by fans and press and security and their money grabbing manager, and they couldn’t — _Christ,_ they couldn’t do anything right now, and it was driving him round the fucking bend.

It made him snap. Just like that.

‘I wanna do a canal tour,’ said Mark suddenly, causing everyone else to look up. ‘On a _boat_ ,’ he added as if it might make his idea sound more rebellious. He was looking Nigel straight in the eyes. It made his stomach flutter with nerves. (Rob once joked that Nigel reminded him of one of those ancient Greek monsters in comic books that could turn you into stone by looking at them, and it kind of stuck.)

Nigel wasn’t having any of it. Paul deliberately started driving slower in case he and James had to prevent a fistfight. ‘I told you, Mark, there’s—‘

‘One boat trip,’ Mark reiterated, an unfamiliar feeling coursing through his veins. Mark decided it was anger. He didn’t like how it was making him shake like a leaf. ‘We’ll see the city, the fans and press’ll be able to take pictures . . .’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ was Nigel’s one and only argument.

‘The band has split up, you know; I doubt you’ll lose much money if one of us falls into the river,’ Mark blurted out, and Howard chuckled before conveniently getting a coughing fit. ‘Who gives a shit, anyway? It don’t matter if we get spotted; everyone already fucking knows we’re ‘ere!’ His voice sounded embarrassingly high.

Definitely anger.

‘Mark, if you keep talking to me like that—’

James and Paul glanced at each other.

‘What, you’ll fire me?’ Mark was almost shouting now. ‘That’s a really great threat comin’ from someone who’ll be out of a job in a day.’

Mark didn’t realise that he was clenching his fists so tight that his knuckles had turned white.

He had never spoken up to Nige like that. Never. He knew that if he did, he might end up like Rob. But Rob wasn’t here and neither was Take That, so Nigel’s threats were going to do fuck-all today.

Mark watched Nigel swallow. ‘Fine. One trip. But if anything happens I’m holding you all responsible.’

Nothing happened, at least not while the boys were on their last-minute canal cruise. Later, when Mark and Gary sneaked off and set the empty streets of Amsterdam on fire with their touches and kisses, things would happen that were to stay on their minds for the rest of time. _Later_.

The boys quickly hopped on a small canal boat in front of Amsterdam Central Station, where there were so many tourists that four ordinary boys attracted no attention. Mark felt a bit disoriented when their small boat headed away from the central station and its aligning _stationsplein_ and went straight for a modern-looking district (where a brand new museum was being built), but he felt better once he caught sight of Amsterdam’s familiar canal houses again.

He almost felt home here.

(But mostly because Amsterdam’s curry houses were so good. Gary once took them to the Akbar restaurant near Leidseplein – just a stone’s throw away from all the best shops and music venues – and the food was so good that they went again the next day when they were supposed to catch the next flight to Germany. The restaurant is still there today.)

It was a pleasant trip. The wind felt cold to their cheeks and the buoyancy of the boat made Gary sick again, but it was much better than what they had been through all day. For a blissful second the boys even thought they might be able to make it back to the hotel undetected, but then they passed a theatre on their left and a saw a bridge just up ahead, and all hell broke loose.

Jason pressed PAUSE on his private camcorder.

Howard wondered if he should get rid of the bottle of beer in his hands.

There were crowds of people on every single bridge, and not just the tourist type; there were fans that Gary vaguely recognised from their visit to the TV studio. Exasperated mothers and fathers. (Mostly mothers.) Paramedics. There were journalists, too – some had even flown in from the UK –, but they were far outnumbered by the sheer number of fans who had showed up to catch a final glimpse of their idols.

It was even worse than at the hotel.

As if wanting to put the ex-Take Thatters under a final spotlight, the sun came out — uncharacteristically bright for that time of year. Even Howard, who had been a grumpy sod all day, found himself smiling back at the young fans who had showed up with banners.

Perhaps, Howard thought, everything would be all right after all. He’d get through this. They all would. Take That was no more and Howard wasn’t disillusioned about there being a future for the band in any shape or form, but his heart would cope. His heart would cope, and so would he. Tomorrow, when he woke up to a makeshift choir of fans singing his songs, he’d no longer feel the dread pressing down on his shoulders and feel brand new.

Mark and Gary were the only ones who were still seated, and Mark had crept a little closer to Gary under the pretence that he was cold. (He _was_ , but that’s beside the point.) Nigel was telling Jason and Howard off for drinking alcohol and James and Paul were too busy glaring at fans, so Mark could finally tell Gary what he was thinking.

‘I wanna run off,’ Mark whispered petulantly. He folded his cold hands into a bowl and blew hot air onto them, as if that would actually warm them up. He shivered in spite of himself and rubbed his hands together tighter. He wished he hadn’t left his coat in the hotel, but it’s not like he knew they were actually going to be allowed _out_ three hours ago. Maybe he’d buy a new scarf at a tourist shop; he did love a scarf. (There’s a lot you can do with a scarf that has nothing to do with keeping oneself warm.) ‘You know, _actually_ run off,’ Mark added.

‘Are you sayin’ you wanna elope with me?’ Gary said, lowering his voice to match Mark’s whisper.

‘If that’s what it takes.’

‘You do realise we’re on a boat?’

‘I _know_ that, just . . . Whatever. It’s a stupid idea.’

A fan called their names, and Mark waved in the general direction of the cry.

‘I never said that,’ Gary said, waving too after Mark gently nudged him with his elbow, ‘I’m just sayin’ we’re on a boat. Makes running off very difficult, that.’

‘We could swim.’

‘Hm.’

Mark was dangling his legs back and forth anxiously. He had put his hands underneath his thighs and looked like he was going to turn into an ice shard in a minute. It didn’t help that everyone else was more or less wearing a coat, or something warm at least: Howard was wearing a rather mismatched but comfortable dress shirt/woolly jumper combination, Jason – ever so sensible – had brought a warm leather jacket and wool hat and of course Gary had his unflattering jacket that wasn’t doing his fine figure any favours.

‘I wish I could hold you,’ Gary whispered. When he saw that Nigel still wasn’t looking at them, he added, ‘Touch you until we’re both warm. Until we’re both _hot_ ,’ he said, his breath catching in his throat at the final word.

Mark’s eyes flickered down and lingered at Gary’s lips. He felt himself being pulled forwards — he watched the line of Gary’s exposed neck as he swallowed — there was just something so spectacular about kissing Gary; the way everything felt overwhelming and amazing even after a hundred or a thousand kisses; how sometimes Gary would make these little noises when his lips were touched _just so_ — but he shook his head before Gary could lean in and peck him, and stared at his hands instead.

Mark pulled down the sleeves off his black jumper. A red blotch had spread all over his cheeks. ‘Yeah, but we can’t though, can we? Not with, you know.’ He nodded at their colleagues. Former colleagues. Whatever.

‘I thought exhibitionism was kinda your thing to be honest,’ Gary said to Mark’s ear. They were so close that they were almost touching, but not close enough; Gary’s warm breath tickled the skin underneath Mark’s ear, warming Mark up in more places than one as his skin tingled where Gary’s lips had almost been. He always felt so turned on at that, when Gary pecked his ear — not quite kissing him but brushing his lips against the places where Mark was most sensitive until he reached his neck and _sucked_. He’d bite the skin there sometimes, but not too much: once, Mark had one of those suspicious bruises on his neck and Nigel almost started a formal investigation to find out how it got there.

‘You must have me confused with someone else, Sir,’ said Mark darkly.

A teddy bear was thrown into the river.

The boat wobbled and Howard yelped in an undignified manner.

The boat was steered underneath yet another bridge. A shadow passed over them all, giving Mark the perfect opportunity to squeeze Gary’s hand and send a shockwave through both their bodies.

The bridge passed over their heads and back was the sun. Mark’s hands were back in his own lap.

Gary’s face had gone suspiciously red.

Yet more teddy bears were thrown at them, and Mark got up smiling and demonstratively waved one of the toys in the air to a chorus of screaming girls.

Gary had spent enough time looking at Mark to know that his smile was fake.

Another bridge later, the boys’ canal cruise ended. Nigel said that they’d spent more than enough time on the water, and as usual his word was law: it had been for the past six or so years and still was, even today; last performance or not, he was still the proverbial captain of HMS Take That and he wasn’t going to let his power be overruled by the boys’ silly wishes. They’d had their fun, and now they could all go back to the hotel and go to bed early like he still thought his obedient puppets would.

Despite the boat driver’s best intentions to drop off the boys somewhere quiet, an excited crowd had gathered around them.

The crowd got big fast. For a terrifying ten seconds all Gary could see was strangers’ faces.

They were loud. _So_ loud.

The weather was turning bad; there was lightning in the sky. No, not lightning — camera flashes.

So many cameras.

The voices got louder.

James tried to push him through the crowd, but it was to no avail; parts of Gary were touched, _groped_ like he was a fucking animal in a cage.

There was nowhere to go, just faces and hands and goddamn panic everywhere.

Then a familiar hand grabbed his, and it took Gary a long moment to realise that he was suddenly in the back of a cab.

‘Drive off, please, Sir. No, I don’t care where, just go! Can’t you see we’re almost bein’ killed ‘ere?’

All Gary could hear was the sound of a hundred pairs of hands tapping the car until the tapping turned into silence and the silence turned into the gentle _tatting_ of rain against the car windows.

_He was in the back of a cab_.

_Driving away from his friends. And Nige._

‘Put your seatbelt on,’ a panting Mark told Gary, and Gary did as he was told. His heart was racing in his throat. It’d never been that bad, ever. Sure, there’d been a few incidents over the years and once or twice had fans gotten so excited that he nearly drove Gary to the other side of the fucking street in their hysteria, but it was never as frightening as that.

He _kind_ of understood the fans’ need to own a piece of him – an autograph, a towel, a picture – but that’s the thing; there was nothing left to give away now. Why bother?

‘Where’re we going?’ Gary asked Mark, but Mark just shrugged and ran his hands through his hair. It looked even messier than it did before they went into hair and make-up that morning. (It was kind of hot. Mark looked less tired than this morning as well, and his eyes were no longer red from crying.) ‘ _Great_ ,’ Gary whispered, ‘I’m gonna be murdered by my manager in a fucking five-star hotel . . .’

‘Nige has no more power over us, Gaz.’

Gary said nothing.

God knows where they were. Amsterdam still, but not the Amsterdam of two minutes ago; everything was moving too quickly and everyone was too quiet. ‘Have we even got money for this, anyway?’ Gary added under his breath. He glanced at the taxi driver, who seemed thoroughly unimpressed with having two members of arguably the world’s biggest boy band in his cab. He probably didn’t even know them. Or thought New Kids were better.

‘I thought _you_ did?’

Gary shook his head. ‘I left me wallet at home.’

‘You own God knows how many Ivor Novellos and you haven’t even got a fucking wallet?’

The taxi driver got very angry at that, so the boys were dropped off (read: kicked out) on a street that seemed to stretch out for miles. They hadn’t paid. The street being somewhere west of the city centre, it was quieter here. Less crowded. The buildings were a little less impressive as well – there were mostly modern-looking houses on their right-hand side – but it was still undeniably _Amsterdams_ : it was the Amsterdam that locals will tell you is worth visiting more than the marihuana-infested back alleys. It was no longer raining.

Mark and Gary stared at each other cluelessly as their cab drove off into the afternoon commute. The cold had crept back into Mark’s body again, and he was busy rubbing his arms to keep warm. It wasn’t helping.

‘That was a great idea, that, getting into a taxi with no money,’ Gary mumbled, shivering too. He flinched when he heard a girl scream, but it was only a young child learning how to ride a pink bicycle. In fact, there weren’t any screaming fans or paparazzi anywhere, just ordinary people doing their last-minute grocery shopping on carrier bikes. People passed them from all directions, but none recognised them.

The sun cast an orange glow over the city, and everything felt unfamiliarly calm. Darkness was fast approaching, but it wasn’t time for that yet, not yet.

‘Oh yeah, _much_ worse than getting torn to pieces by journalists!’ Mark said sarcastically, at which Gary rolled his eyes. (Mark was right, of course.) Mark waved a hand at the street ahead of them. ‘Shall we go or d’you wanna stay ‘ere and freeze to death?’

‘Do we even know where we are?’

‘Amsterdam.’

‘ _Are_ we, now? I had no idea.’

Off the boys went, following the tram rails in the assumption that they’d lead them somewhere familiar.

For the longest time, Mark and Gary didn’t speak. So many thoughts had been occupying their minds at the hotel and on the river Amstel that their minds were wiped clean by the time they had a moment alone. They weren’t even sure if this was the right time to share their thoughts anymore if they still had any: this street, with its modern housing and little cafés, was so blissfully quiet that it almost seemed wrong to voice any kind of negativity.

The busy humdrum of touristic Amsterdam seemed so far away now.

Mark squeezed Gary’s arm. ‘You know what this reminds me of?’ He had fallen in step beside Gary. Their pace was pleasantly slow, and they had only covered about half a mile since getting out the car. ‘ _Berlin_. You know, when we got lost and Jay and How had to look for us at Checkpoint Charlie or wherever we were?’

‘You mean when Nige tried to reach me on me brand new mobile phone but he couldn’t cos Rob had nicked it?’ Mark nodded enthusiastically. ‘I remember that, yeah. I think Nigel’s still angry about it, actually. I wasn’t allowed out for the rest of the tour,’ he said, more to himself than to Mark.

‘Didn’t you used to charge money for that thing? Your mobile phone?’ Mark asked. They passed a greengrocer, and Mark eyed a batch of green apples hungrily. He really should of taken some spare change with him, he thought.

‘I do still.’

‘Greedy bastard.’ Mark sniffed his nose. ‘Were we already together then? When we went to Berlin?’

Gary thought about it. They stopped at a crossroads in front of a dry cleaner’s and headed into a street on their right after they’d looked at each other and shrugged as if to say, ‘Might as well’. They left the modern architecture of Amsterdam-West behind them and back were the familiar sand-coloured merchants’ houses, framed by a long row of tall trees. It was fast becoming darker; the orange glow that so beautifully fell on the stepped gables of the surrounding houses was fading, making place for the upcoming cloak of nightfall.

‘We weren’t, actually,’ said Gary finally. ‘I remember really pining after you in rehearsals that year, though. It was bloody awful.’

Mark nodded, remembering. ‘Didn’t you sleep with a German groupie after we’d caught up with the boys in Berlin? What was her name? Gretchen? Anna? Not really a looker, was she? You must’ve been really desperate if you wanted to shag her,’ he added without thinking, and he bit his lip as though embarrassed at having said it.

Gary cringed. ‘You sound like Dougie. Anyway, you can’t blame me for feeling horny, mate; have you _seen_ you?’

Mark chuckled. ‘I did think you spent an awful lot of time in the bathroom that year. You used to disappear every time we did _Relight_ in rehearsals.’

‘I have no idea what you’re on about, Mark, honestly.’

The boys reached a large, Gothic church surrounded by yet more Amsterdam Renaissance houses. The houses had been built in a sort of semi-circle made out of clearly marked bike paths and pavement, almost creating an inner courtyard with the church as its centrepiece. The trees there were a vibrant spring green, and it was nearly quiet but for the sound of a cyclist.

It looked like a snapshot out of a film.

Gary grabbed Mark’s elbow when a preoccupied Mark almost walked into a speeding cyclist on the pavement.

‘Careful, mate, there’s bloody cyclists everywhere,’ Gary grumbled. His hand was still on Mark’s arm when the cyclist sped off and rang his bell at the two of them angrily.

‘I know that. I was just . . . I just thought . . .’ Mark seemed very distracted all of a sudden. Gary turned around to see what Mark was staring at, but Mark told him not to. He wasn’t even looking Gary in the eyes as he did so: ‘Don’t. Just — Just stay still,’ Mark whispered, and he squinted at whatever was going on behind Gary’s back.

‘What? Why?’ Gary looked at his own shoulder. ‘Is there a bug on me?’

Mark shook his head. Very slowly, he said, ‘I think there’s someone in the bushes in front of the church. Paparazzi, I mean,’ Mark added when Gary frowned, not understanding. ‘I’m pretty sure I saw ‘im get off one of those trams earlier. Big guy. British, I think.’

Gary stayed rooted to his spot. His heart rate had increased. ‘Fuck. Okay. This is bad. Is this bad?’

‘It is if we ever wanna get some fucking privacy.’ Mark looked Gary in the eyes then, and there was that familiar sadness in the blue of his eyes again that Gary had seen earlier.

Mark didn’t have to say anything. Having stuck with Mark through thick and thin, Gary knew exactly what he meant by it. There was still that elephant in the room that neither of them had brought up, but they both knew they’d have to eventually. Their moment of truth, of acceptance, was fast approaching and if they were going to be chased by fans and journalists all afternoon and evening they were going to go to bed never having talked about it at all.

For in the morning, Gary wasn’t going to be there for Mark anymore. He’d trade in Mark for recording studios and promising American producers and not even bother to say goodbye to Mark in bed or at the breakfast table.

Mark blinked, and his eyes were back on the sneaky paparazzo again. ‘When I say ‘run’, we run, all right?’ he whispered fiercely.

‘Why are you being so dramatic? I’m tellin’ you, Mark, I’m not gonna r—’

But Mark had already grabbed Gary’s hand and dragged him into the next street.

Gary hated running and everything else that felt vaguely like exercise and sweating and aching body parts. (Apart from sex. He liked sex. Especially with Mark.) Obviously a few years from now Gary would change his stance on ‘exercise’ completely and wake up at the crack of dawn every day to do push-ups and other things that exhausts most people just thinking about it, but he was panting by the time he and Mark reached the other side of the road.

They were moving fast now — not jogging or speed-walking but actually _running_ like they were at the fucking Summer Olympics. The paparazzo was hot on their heels, his huge camera still in his hands but failing to take any photos.

It was dark now.

The streetlights were on.

Mark ran into a group of tourists head-on and he apologised and apologised until Gary pulled him away.

Gary could never understand them, paparazzi. Over the years, Gary would form a bond with several journalists that in time would come in very handy every time a new record needed promoting, but paparazzi were just something else entirely. Take That were never photographed out and about much mainly because they were always in Europe one day and in East Asia the next, but lately it was as though everyone wanted a piece of them. There were photographers posed outside his old London apartment and Cheshire house all the time, and for what purpose? Gary wasn’t going to come out wearing an anti-Robbie T-shirt, was he?

They must’ve been running for ten minutes.

Like headless chicken, the boys hadn’t paid any attention to where they were going and it wasn’t until Gary almost stumbled over the branch of a tree that he noticed he was in a park. The paparazzo was nowhere to be seen.

Neither was Mark.

Cold sweat broke out on Gary’s forehead. This was bad. Very bad. They were in fucking Amsterdam of all places and they’d gotten _separated._

But that wasn’t even the worst of it: he felt a sharp pain in his sides, and he bent over with his arms pressed against his stomach. ‘Fucking hell,’ he groaned, rubbing the place where the pain had been, ‘So much for a quiet stroll through Amsterdam.’ (God knows how Gary once managed to get through a two-hour concert every night six months previously. He was actually panting like a goddamn dog as well, he was that out of shape.)

He had no idea where he was. In a park, obviously, but which one?

There were trees. Branches.

Traditional-looking streetlamps illuminated makeshift paths in grass fields.

There were no people, not anywhere.

It wasn’t a place he’d been before.

Bloody typical, this was. Their last ever day together as a band, and he lost the last ever person he wanted to lose sight of.

He didn’t want it to go this way. It wasn’t how he had planned it.

Another sharp pang. The next moment, he was sitting on a bench away from streetlights and people, rubbing his sides until the pain faded.

Everyone had already left the park, and he knew he should too but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go back to the hotel and not see Mark again until breakfast because Gary already knew he wouldn’t be arsed to stay. Mark was crap at goodbyes and so was Gary so they were going to try very hard not to say goodbye to each other at all.

It was always like that though, with Gary. On the last tour they had a huge cast of dancers, about fifteen of them in total, and they were all lovely. Gary liked every single one of them and he wanted to keep in touch with them, he really did, but then the final day of the tour arrived and he just went back to the hotel. Just like that. He’s not even seen any of those dancers since.

It was just incredibly hard, saying goodbye. It wasn’t just the idea of something ending that made it hard, but all the emotions and thoughts that went with it. Do you hug the person you’re saying goodbye to? Do you make promises to give them a call? Is it okay when you’re getting a bit emotional?

Perhaps not seeing Mark again would make it easier.

(Perhaps not.)

‘ _Jesus_!’ Gary exclaimed when Mark placed his hand on his shoulder and joined him on his wooden bench. He had no idea how much time had passed since last seeing him. A long time, clearly, for the pain in his body had ceased and his breathing had turned back to normal. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’

‘Sorry, Gaz.’

They were sitting on a small bench underneath a large tree. The streetlights were reflected in a large pond up ahead. 

Gary wasn’t so sure whether they were allowed to be here at night at all.

‘Did we lose him, then? Your paparazzo?’ asked Gary, his voice thick with nerves. His heart rate still had not slowed down after his fright, and he guessed Mark being so _goddamn close_ had something to do with that. He was so close that their thighs were practically touching.

Gary could actually feel the heat radiate off him.

‘Think we did, yeah,’ said Mark, licking his lips deliberately slowly. It made Gary want to suck his tongue. ‘It’s very quiet here, innit?’

The emphasis on the word _quiet_ made the hairs on Gary’s neck stand on end. Part of him knew what was going to happen – he’d felt it a million times before with Mark, that nervous surge that started somewhere in his belly and ended a little lower every time they were about to fuck –, but he also knew that once they got started it would have to end at some point, too.

‘It – It is, yeah,’ Gary stammered, looking everywhere but at Mark when Mark placed his hand on his right thigh. ‘I, er, I wonder where we are,’ he added, ignoring the warmth that spread though his body when Mark rubbed his hand up and down his leg slowly. Mark was always so good at that, getting Gary hard before they started.

‘You sound nervous, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary looked at Mark properly for the first time that day. Mark’s eyes were telling an entirely different story than the rest of his body language: his hands were needy, but his eyes weren’t.

He looked shit scared.

‘So do you,’ Gary said softly, at which Mark laughed anxiously. ‘You _sure_ you want this, Mark?’ he added, by which he meant, ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this to potentially be our last time cos I’m not sure I am?’

Mark smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘If not now, then when?’

Gary thought about it. ‘A quiet Sunday morning? In bed? On a private desert island? I like desert islands.’

‘Even you can’t afford that.’

‘I might, though.’

‘Show-off. C’mere, you . . .’

Mark moved his mouth to Gary’s, but stopped mere millimetres before closing the gap as though willing Gary to give in and move forward. Their lips touched, but only barely. They stared at each other, eyes fluttering half-closed, breathing in each other’s scent, until Mark smiled for real and pulled Gary closer.

The kiss wasn’t like the others. Usually, there was a gradual build-up of comfort and desire once the nerves had faded — brief seconds of the boys getting to know each other’s mouths and bodies again. When Mark kissed Gary that night, it was with force and need and none of the things that Gary had grown to expect of him: suddenly Gary was lying flat on his back, flinching when Mark’s ice cold hands slipped underneath the hem of his shirt. Gary’s blue jacket had been buttoned open and he ought to have felt absolutely cold but how could he when Mark was pressing his tongue against his parted lips?

Cold nights like this were going to be ruined for Gary for evermore: from now on, every time he went outside and smelled the crispy, smoky air of the cold he was to be reminded of this moment again — of Mark twisting his nipples with his fingers; Mark's body, on him; Mark's cologne mixed with the acrid smell of April nights.

And then there was that fear of getting caught, making every moan that escaped their lips yet more impactful.

If they got caught, it would ruin both their lives. Their careers would be over.

But that's the thing; they had nothing left to lose so all that the fear of getting caught did was make Mark quicken his jerks until all that could be heard for miles was Gary's high-pitched moans because Mark's cock felt _oh so good_ against his.

But what Gary was going to remember more was the wetness he felt against his cheeks when Mark kissed him, and the moment that followed.

Gary ignored the tears. They weren’t tears, just — something. Definitely not tears. Mark didn’t do crying. He didn’t do shaking, either: he was just cold, that was all. Nothing was the matter. Everything was fine. Mark had only stopped touching him because he was teasing him, Gary told himself. What else could possibly be the matter?  

As though wanting to reassure himself of all these things and more, Gary pushed his hand into Mark’s hair and pulled him closer still. It was soft and short and it slipped right through his fingers.

Mark was slipping through his fingers.

The way Mark was kissing him had changed, but Gary was too lost in trying to pretend that everything was okay to notice. He’d get Mark to enjoy this time together, he would.

Then Mark jerked his head away.

‘Mark?’

‘ _God_. I – I can’t do this, Gaz, I’m so sorry.’

‘Mark, calm down, mate. _Mark_.’

Gary couldn’t believe that this was happening, that he was watching Mark pull down his jumper and tuck himself back in.

What was this? Reluctance to move further? Fear? That had never happened before, not even when they nearly got caught on the tour bus. (Twice.) Back when everything was new and exciting and their bodies weren’t like ticking time bombs — that’s when they were always needy and always horny and didn’t even have to think twice about wanting to pleasure each other.

Mark was always the one to initiate things. Always.

He was shaking badly now, and it wasn’t until Gary had called his name three times that Mark seemed to remember where they were. When he reluctantly looked at Gary again, there were tears in his eyes.

He was clutching the end of the wooden bench so tight that it looked like it was about to crush under his touch.

Gary laced Mark’s fingers in his and held his hand tightly. It didn’t feel as familiar as it did when Mark was touching them both.

‘What’s wrong?’ Gary asked. Pointless, he knew.

Mark shook his head. He was still shaking. ‘Dunno,’ he lied, with that rubbish little shrug that was always his tell.

‘I think you do.’

Mark glanced sideways. ‘I’m not gonna have a serious conversation when your fly’s still undone.’

Gary turned scarlet and zipped himself back up.

They said nothing as Mark thought about what he was going to say. The temperature had dropped considerably since they first got here – how much time had passed they could not tell; ten minutes perhaps; maybe an hour; how could they know when time runs quicker every time you’re dreading something? –, and Gary shivered when a cold breeze ran over his back. He unconsciously squeezed Mark’s hand tighter, but Mark didn’t squeeze back.

Mark swallowed. ‘I – I just thought . . . I really thought I could do this, you know,’ – He vaguely gestured at Gary – ‘But . . . I can’t. I just can’t. I thought I could just make love to you one more time and then it’d be over and we’d both move on, but I don’t know if I can. How can I just — _move on_? Pretend that you’re not me first thought when I wake up every morning?’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘How can I pretend that I don’t love you? That one day we’re together and the next day there’s nothin’? How can I? Too much has happened for that,’ he said sadly, his painful words clinging onto Gary’s heart like ice.

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand when Gary didn’t immediately respond. ‘But it don’t bother you, does it?’

That stung. ‘Of course it does. I—’

‘You’re leaving for America in less than twenty-four hours, did you really think that wouldn’t change anything?’ Mark said, his voice quavering now. It wasn’t an accusation: it was a stone cold fact. Gary was leaving for America in less than twenty-four hours, period. The flight had already been booked and Gary didn’t even have to worry about looking for a hotel: he was going to stay with a friend of the record label.

Gary had arranged it because where else was he going to get away from it all? Not here and certainly not back in the UK, where journalists were already writing about a so-called feud between Gary and another member of the band. At least in the States he could be him, just Gary from Frodsham. He hadn’t even thought about how Mark would fit into it all. He didn’t want to, really.

‘I – I was hoping it wouldn’t,’ Gary lied. He rubbed his thumb back and forth on the back of Mark’s hand. It didn’t feel right, somehow. Like that morning, a lot of things suddenly didn’t. Mark’s hand was too cold and his skin too dry. ‘We could phone? Write?’

Mark scoffed at that. ‘You know I won’t,’ he said softly, and he let Gary let go of his hand.

They’d stopped trying, the both of them. It was the one thing Gary didn’t want to admit to – perhaps if he didn’t think about it they’d both be fine – but then the words came, burned onto his cold skin until another opportunity to solve things came along. They were the very words that Gary wished he never had to say to Mark but he had to. The time had come, and he just had to say _something_ because they’d both stopped putting the work in ages ago:

‘We’ve just broken up, haven’t we?’

Even the leaves on the tree overhead rustled louder than his whisper.

Mark pulled down his sleeves so that they covered his hands. He could still say ‘no’. Everything could still change for the better. If he said ‘no’, they could pretend that their worlds were not falling apart all around them and that there was still a future for whatever the fuck they had going on.

‘Yeah,’ Mark said instead. He already sounded like he’d accepted the thought, which stung even more than the break-up itself did.

Gary stared at his hands. ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, to be honest, Mark.’

‘No, you were just going to head off to the States tomorrow without saying goodbye, weren’t you?’ Mark said, not cruelly. A tear ran down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it off with the back of his hand so Gary wouldn’t see.

‘I – I would never . . .’ Gary sighed in surrender when Mark raised his eyebrows at him. ‘Yeah, I would. I was. I’m a fucking coward, I am.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes or more.

Breaking up with Mark had never been an option. Even after they’d had a silly lover’s quarrel, Gary always came running back to Mark or vice versa because they just couldn’t imagine not being together. It’s not that they were clingy – they weren’t; they still slept with groupies weeks into their relationship because why the fuck should they not? –, but the alternative was loneliness. Going to bed feeling shit cos you haven’t seen your family for four months and there’s no-one you can talk to about it. Writing love songs that meant fuck-all.

Gary was convinced that they’d always stay together even if they didn’t.

He didn’t realise how disillusioned that thought was until Valentine’s Day came and all he saw on every single tabloid cover was their daft, sad faces. Then their Greatest Hits came out a month later, and the countdown started.

Gary couldn’t remember walking the two-mile journey back to the hotel. Had they walked at all? Perhaps they’d gotten into a taxi and legged it to the reception without paying — that would be quite something, wouldn’t it? One more act of defiance. One more nicked bar of hotel soap shoved into a bag because it made them feel powerful when they were everything but.

All Gary was still aware of when he pushed open the door to Mark’s room was his aching feet and Mark’s hungry mouth on his.

Back in the park they promised each other to finish what they started, but Gary couldn’t recall how they’d gotten that far; why Mark’s eyes were suddenly so dry and how Gary had stopped feeling like the rug had been pulled from under his feet. How they could just pretend like they hadn’t just ended a three-year relationship.

As though time itself had ceased, they put aside their fears one last time and made love like it was the first. Perhaps that repressing of feelings is what made it so easy to push into Mark and not be afraid that he was going to shatter under his touch — for now.

They did it on the floor. On the bed and against the wall; anywhere, anytime, all so they could leave that final mark on the city and each other. Then that familiar waterfall of sweet nothings and sighs came, and Gary realised they were both getting too close to the edge too soon. He dropped Mark onto his bed and fucked him slowly, thoroughly, drawing out his orgasm as long as he could — but then it came and it was over. Gary kissed the tears off Mark’s cheeks and said nothing as he held him tight. Midnight came, and they still hadn’t said anything.

When Gary woke up the next morning, Mark had rolled over to the other side of the bed. He was only half-covered by sheets and Gary felt wrong just thinking about how beautiful he looked.

Gary felt nothing and everything when he kissed Mark’s hair and left.


End file.
